Eggs from the dearly departed chicken, Lulu, were used in this rich, nourishing Avgolemono Soup.

I plowed through the newly fallen snow for my midday chicken check. When it's this cold, you need to bring in eggs frequently so they don't freeze and break. I often bring the ladies scraps, so even if they are tucked in the coop due to frigid weather, they always trot outside to see me.

This time, no one appeared, and I didn't hear the customary feather-stirring and soft clucking from inside. My eyes drifted down to feathers blowing around my feet, more than usual. I saw the feeder was knocked over. And then I saw a disturbingly large clump of down in the corner. My heart skipped.

Just outside the back of the netted chicken run was an enormous pile of feathers, two pale feet and not much else. I recognized the black and gold plumage.

Sweet little Lulu, the shyest and lowest member of the flock, had been eaten.

Despite my efforts at cultivating a logical and accepting farmer's attitude, I cried. It certainly wasn't a peaceful way to go — I only hoped it had been quick.

I couldn't see any footprints, just tell-tale lines in the snow — evenly spaced and symmetrical from the tips of large wings.

My husband came out a short while later to clean up, but the perpetrator had returned to the scene of the crime to finish the last scraps.

Our resident red-tailed hawk visits daily and has lived in this area longer than we have.

Our property is the epicenter of her range, and she haunts our large oaks and perches on the peak of our workshop. We always knew this was a possibility.

I imagine a harsh winter with deep snow cover is trying for a hawk. I can't begrudge her her hunger, but I am surprised by the nature of the ambush. By the looks of the struggle, it appears the hawk entered the enclosed run via the small doorway, captured her meal and carried it outside.

Lulu was my Easter Egger — a non-specific variety of chicken that doesn't conform to any breed standards, but who possesses the gene for blue or green-colored eggs.

She was the smallest chicken, often bullied by the others and forced to eat and drink last (this is part of standard flock hierarchy). But she seemed wily and smarter than the others.

I had seen her run for cover when the hawk called, while the others just stood around.

My best guess is that everyone else had finished lunch and returned to the coop, leaving her outside to finish up on her own.

She wasn't the first of our flock to die, and I know she won't be the last.

I don't know if it was the brutality of the attack or the starkness of the scene on the deep, white snow, but I was heartsick.

Tonight we'll enjoy a rich, nourishing soup made from the last few eggs she gave us and pause for a moment to remember and appreciate our little Lulu.

This is a traditional Greek soup with a bright, tart flavor and creamy texture. If you make it with pasta and rotisserie chicken from the deli, it can be ready in less than 15 minutes. The recipe is from dinneralovestory.com.